


Strong

by Eldalire



Series: In Time Gone By [3]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Abuse, Anorexia, Anxiety, Eating Disorder, Gen, High School, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-19
Updated: 2015-03-06
Packaged: 2018-02-13 19:13:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2161941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eldalire/pseuds/Eldalire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Both Enjolras and Grantaire have hit rock bottom.  Grantaire's world falls apart around him when he comes out of treatment for his depression, and Enjolras is withering away, completely controlled by his disease.  But perhaps they'll pull through with the support of their friends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Enjolras

When Enjolras didn’t bring lunch to school the week after prom, Combeferre and Bossuet headed to the school nurse during their study hall.

            “Oh hello Courfeyrac!  Hello Bossuet! How can I help you boys?” the nurse, Mrs. Myriel asked with a kind smile.  She was an older woman, and loved her job.  She was always friendly and sunny, but her smile vanished when she saw the worry in Courfeyrac and Bossuet’s eyes.  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

            “It’s Enjolras.” Courfeyrac said. 

“Oh the young man with the blonde curly hair…He’s on the debate team, isn’t he?” Nurse Myriel knew all of the kids by name.  Nobody knew how, but even if they had never been into her office, she knew who they were and what they liked, how to make them laugh, how to make them feel better. She was like a saint—perfectly kind and selfless.

“Yeah that’s him.” Courfeyrac said.

“Is he alright?”

“He hasn’t been eating lunch for a few weeks now.” He explained.

            “And he’s lost a lot of weight.” Bossuet added.  “I’m in his gym class.  He doesn’t look too hot.  He stops for breaks all the time and stuff…He gets out of breath real easily.”

            “Oh I see…” the nurse said, flipping through her student papers, finding Enjolras’ and removing it, looking for his phone number.  “Thank you for letting me know, boys.  I’ll call him in and then see if I can contact his parents.”

            “Thanks.” Courfeyrac said with a smile, feeling as though a weight were off his back.

            “Could you not tell him it was us, though?  I mean, that told you?” Bossuet asked.  “I don’t want him to feel like we betrayed him or anything…”

            “Of course!  You were very brave to come in.  You may have just saved his life.” She said. 

 

—o0o—

 

Enjolras sighed and walked down the hallway towards the nurse’s office.  His teacher had received a phone call that the nurse wanted to see him, so he went without a fight. There wasn’t anything wrong with him…No. He was fine…

 

 _Just don’t tell her about food or anything.  You’re fine.  Everyone goes on a diet sometimes…_ Enjolras thought to himself. As he knocked on the office door. Mrs. Myriel answered it and asked him to come into the back room.

            “How have you been, Enjolras?” she asked with a smile, offering him a chair. He sat down and crossed his arms over his midsection, hoping to discreetly hide his weight loss.

            “Well, than you.” he replied with a smile.  “How are you?”

            “Good. Thank you.” she returned the smile. “I did want to ask you about some things, though…Sort of like a check up.” She continued.  Enjolras felt the blood drain from his face, but hoped the nurse hadn’t noticed.

            “Alright.” Enjolras said, trying to sound more chipper than he felt.

            “A few students came to me earlier today and expressed concern about your eating habits.  I understand you haven’t been eating lunch.” She said.  Enjolras felt his face become hot.

            “I tend to have a bigger breakfast and eat when I get home from school.” He lied.

 _Ugh.  Big breakfast would be disgusting._ He thought…or…perhaps it was the illness talking.

            “I see.” Mrs. Myriel said with a nod.  “Would you mind if I weighed you?” she asked.  Enjolras didn’t want to seem guilty of anything. He also knew exactly how much he weighed, and the nurse wouldn’t be happy about it.

            “Um…sure.” He said, opting to play dumb.  Maybe she’d let him off.  Maybe she wouldn’t even weigh him since he agreed.  No such luck.  She instructed him to remove his shoes—a pair of red chukka boots—and climb up onto the scale. She pushed the weights from side to side, alarmed when she read the final balance.

            “Enjolras you only weigh 103 pounds.”

            “Do I really?” he asked, keeping up the charade as long as he could.

            “Enjolras what did you have for breakfast this morning?” she asked.

            “I—I, um…I had toast.” Not a lie.  He did have toast…well, half a slice of toast…with nothing else…Then he ran on the treadmill in the basement for twenty minutes before getting a shower and going to school.  Enjolras woke up at four in the morning to fulfill his ritualistic routine. 

            “What else?” the nurse asked.  Enjolras looked around, thinking.  What did people usually eat for breakfast?  He panicked.

            “I—I don’t…remember.” He said, biting his lip as he was wont to do when he was nervous.

            “Enjolras, _did_ you have anything else for breakfast?” she asked, handing him his shoes.  He stepped off the scale and sat back down with a sigh. He shook his head, no.

            “Please don’t tell my parents…I can stop.  I’ll…I’ll gain weight.” The phrase tasted bitter in his mouth. ‘gain weight’. Just the thought of it made him want to gag. 

            “I’m sorry, Enjolras, but I’m going to have to call your parents. Eating disorders are very serious. You could die without help. I don’t want that to happen to you.”

            “Please! Please don’t tell them!” he pleaded, standing, tears coming to his eyes.

            “Enjolras please sit.  Calm down. This isn’t anything to be ashamed of! This isn’t your fault. Now just sit and collect yourself for a minute.  I’m going to call your parents.” She said, standing and leaving the room, pulling the curtain shut behind her, leaving Enjolras alone in the dim room.  He put his elbows on his knees and looked down, pushing his hair back with his hands. 

 

 _Well done, Enjolras.  You should have been more careful!  Not bringing lunch…pathetic._ His illness growled.

 

He cringed, covering his ears with his hands. He squeezed his eyes shut.

 

“Why is this happening to me?” he asked himself quietly.


	2. Grantaire

Grantaire had been out of treatment for a month when it happened.

 

His father hadn’t been especially unreasonable lately. He seemed to relax a bit, and paid less attention to Grantaire.  He hadn’t hit him.  He hadn’t shouted at him. He slept more. But things were still getting worse.  
            The evening after he had come home, Grantaire drank nearly an entire handle of vodka and spent most of the night in the bathtub, sleeping and retching down the drain when nausea hit.  He hated himself. He hated that he drank. He hated that he was sleeping in the bathtub so as not to make a mess in his bed.  He hated that his father hated him.  Everything was just so full of loathing and hopelessness, and he wished he could change it.  Though he no longer had a desire to end his life, he did want to fix it. The problem was, fixing it was so hard. It almost wasn’t worth it.

            He had run out of antidepressants, and his father sure as hell wasn’t going to give him the money to get more himself.  All he could think to do was just keep drinking.  Alcohol was always there for him.  It was always soothing, always relaxing.  Even now, as he was laying in the bathtub, he was blissfully incoherent, thinking of nothing, worrying over nothing. 

            He got along that way for a while, but things started to turn sour again when he began to miss school.  The drinking had become so excessive that he hardly ever stopped, and when he did, he was asleep. Between drinking and sleeping, he couldn’t bring himself to do anything else.  He didn’t care.  All he wanted to do was go numb.  When the phone call came from school that Grantaire hadn’t been showing up, the beating was brutal.

            “What the fuck is wrong with you?!” his father shouted at him, barging into Grantaire’s bedroom as he sat on the bed, a cheap bottle of wine in his hands. Grantaire didn’t even register that his father was there for a moment, but when he did, he dropped the bottle, spilling deep burgundy wine all over the hardwood floor.

            “Have you been drinking again?!  You think this is okay to do?!  Look at this place! There are bottles everywhere! You’re stealing from me, you little bitch!”

            “I didn’t steal it.” Grantaire slurred.  It was true after all.  He had paid for it himself, using a fake ID, of course.  He didn’t dare steal from his father.

            “Where did you get the money, then?  Prostitution like your whore mother!?  You’re a little slut just like her!  You’re fucking useless, Grantaire!” he lifted him up by his curly hair, and Grantaire let out a long hiss in pain.  His father backhanded him across the face, a gash running from his ear to his chin. Then he pulled him down and ground his cheek into the puddle of spilled wine on the floor.  “You like that?!  You like drinking this shit?!”  He threw him against the wall by his hair, then kicked him in the ribs once he was down.  Grantaire balled up, covering his head with his hands and arms, but it was little use. The man pried away his arms and punched him square in the jaw.  He went limp, his father holding him up by his wrist for only a moment before releasing him and letting him fall to the floor.  The man gave his son a final swift kick in the side before leaving, slamming the door to the bedroom, leaving Grantaire passed out and bleeding on the floor.

            The sound from the slamming door seemed to stir Grantaire, and his eyes fluttered open.  He pushed himself up onto his hands and knees, coughing, horrified when a tooth joined his blood on the floor.  He was even more horrified when he realized he was crying, not from emotion, but from pain. Grantaire had a ridiculously high pain tolerance, and he knew a beating had been particularly bad when he cried. He needed to leave.

            He quickly threw a few articles of clothing into a duffle bag from the pile in the corner, along with the handle of vodka from under his bed, and headed out the window the same way he had just two months ago.  But this time, he wasn’t off to end his life. He was off to save it.

 

—o0o—

 

Grantaire dialed Combeferre on his crappy flip phone as he walked across the overpass, hesitating a moment at the spot he had attempted to jump from just a few months before.  He was beyond relief when Combeferre picked up the phone.

            “Hello?” he asked cheerfully.

            “Hey. It’s R.” Grantaire struggled, his mouth so swollen he could hardly speak correctly.  He held his tooth in his hand, hoping it could be fixed. If not, he would have to be a toothless freak forever, because his dad sure wasn’t buying him any expensive dental replacement or whatever.

            “Hello. Are you alright? You sound funny.” He said.

            “No. I’m sort of—” he spit out a mouthful of blood into the bushes on the side of the road. “I need help. Can I come to your place?”

            “Oh. Oh yes of course…Do you need me to pick you up?”

            “That might be good… I just got off the—” he spit out more blood. “I just got off the overpass by Rue Plumet…I’ll just stay here for a sec, I guess.”

            “I’ll be right there.” Grantaire heard him replace the phone on the hook and sighed, sitting down on the curb, thinking how fucked up he must look. He could feel his cheek and lip swelling, and he was having trouble keeping his left eye open. There was definitely blood dripping from his mouth—he wiped it away many times, but it still spilled over—and his sweatshirt had a massive wine stain on it.  It probably looked like a bloody wound.  People looked at him from the windows of their passing cars. They probably thought he was some homeless thug…well…was he?

            He stood up when Combeferre’s car stopped on the shoulder, and Combeferre jumped out of the car, horrified, and helped Grantaire into the passenger seat.

            “Goodness what happened to you?” he asked, putting the car into gear and heading home. “Do you need to go to the hospital?”

            “No…but a dentist might be good…” he opened his mouth to show Combeferre his missing tooth.

            “My mother is a dentist.” He said.  “She’ll fix it.”

            “You sure?”

            “Of course.” He replied.

 

—o0o—

 

Not an hour later, Grantaire’s tooth was back in his skull, and he was sitting in the recovery room of the hospital, his lip stitched up, as well as his cheek.  His nose was broken and bandaged, and a social worker was questioning him, a clipboard in his hand.

            “How did this happen, Grantaire?” he asked, a genuine, worried look in his eyes. It made Grantaire feel surprisingly good, to see a stranger so worried for him.  His own father didn’t worry over him that much, and he basked in the attention…But he was nervous.  Should he tell the truth?  His father would go to prison, he knew…But maybe that was for the best…

            “I—I don’t want anyone to get into trouble.” He replied truthfully.

            “Was this an accident?” the man asked.

            “I’m…I don’t know.” He looked away, running a hand through his dark hair. He was sure he smelled heavily of vodka, and was embarrassed.

            “How did it happen, Grantaire?  Did you fall? Were you drunk?” he asked.

            “I’m drunk now.” He said with a bitter chuckle.  He was always drunk.

            “Did you do this to yourself?” Grantaire was silent for a while before shaking his head, no.

            “Who did it?  Do you know?” another pause, then a nod, yes.”

            “I’m sorry that this happened to you…You’re being brave, telling the truth.” The man said with a small smile.  Grantaire looked down at his lap.  What was he supposed to say?  “And I want you to know that whatever you say, nobody will be able to hurt you again.” The room went silent for quite a while—entire minutes—until finally Grantaire spoke again.

            “It was my dad.” He said.  His voice sounded far too loud in the small, silent room, an he wasn’t even sure if he had even said it out loud, or just thought it very loudly to himself. But the social worker scribbled something down with his pen, and must have heard what he said.

            “Was it an accident?” he asked, visibly distressed.  He must have been new to the job—he was too young and too emotional, Grantaire thought.

            “I don’t know…Maybe…I don’t think he really means to hurt me this bad, but…he’s an alcoholic and sometimes he…I don’t think he knows what he’s doing.”

            “Okay…I understand.  And how long have you been drinking?”

            “A while.  Since I was about 13. I was in treatment for depression and alcohol addiction for four weeks then came home, but when I ran out of antidepressants, I started drinking again.”

            “Your father would not continue your medication?”

            “No.”

            “Have you tried to get it yourself?”

            “No…I guess I don’t care that much…I’ve tried to kill myself before…I’m not especially interested in being alive.”

            “Are you suicidal?”

            “I’m not trying to kill myself, but…I wouldn’t really care if I did…die, I guess.” He admitted.

            “Alright…Grantaire, I’m going to do my best to help you.  You won’t be going back to your father again.  Is that alright?”  Grantaire sighed and thought for a moment before nodding.

            “Yeah…I guess so…What’s going to happen to him, though?”

            “I’m honestly not sure, but we as a hospital are obligated by law to report abuse or suspected abuse.  You’ll be staying in a foster program for now, unless there is a family member we can place you with.”

            “I don’t want to be in foster care.” Grantaire said, somewhat harshly. “Can’t I just be emancipated or whatever?”

            “Not unless you are financially stable on your own or are in military service. I’m sorry.”

            “Fuck! This is exactly what I didn’t want to happen!” he shouted, kicking his shoe off and against the wall.

            “Do you have any family you can stay with?”

            “No! Fuck!  Nobody fucking wants me I’m a screw up!”

            “Please calm down, Grantaire.  You are not a screw up and this is not your fault.  We’ll set you up with a family who will care for you properly, and if they do not, you will be able to leave and be placed in the care of another family.  Does that sound fair to you.”

            “Whatever. I don’t have much choice, do I?” he said bitterly.

            “I’m afraid not.” The man said with an apologetic frown.  Grantaire sighed again.

 

—o0o—

 

The young social worker Grantaire met at the hospital knocked on the door to his new ‘home’.  It wasn’t that Grantaire was angry, he was more frustrated and nervous than anything.  The social worker, who’s name turned out to be Floyd, was actually pretty cool, and Grantaire did like him, but he worried he wouldn’t like his new family. An older man opened the door. Grantaire met him one other time at the hospital, and knew his name was Avery Crux.

            “Hey.” He said simply but with a smile, his voice low and gravelly. He had a dark brown beard with greys coming through here and there, and he wore a baseball cap.

            “Hey.” Grantaire replied. 

He had met the man only once before, and knew he was an outdoorsman, but he still wasn’t expecting the plethora of stuffed game animals that welcomed him when he entered the house.  Floyd spoke with the man for a long while, leaving Grantaire alone on the worn-out-yet-comfortable sofa, but eventually, Floyd did leave with a smile and a packet of papers with phone numbers to call if there was a problem.  Then the man sat across from him in an armchair.

“It’s good to see you again, Grantaire.” He said with a smile.  Grantaire did not reply.  “Can I get you anything?  Oh here, let me bring this up to your room.” He took Grantaire’s bag and started up the narrow staircase.  Grantaire followed him.

The row house was small—maybe only 1000 square feet, and had only two small bedrooms. The room he placed Grantaire’s bags in only had a bed and a dresser, but still felt crowded. Beside the bed was a crate, in which slept an old bloodhound, his ears hanging over the edge of the unlocked kennel.

“That’s Murphy. He’ll be out of here by tonight, don’t you worry.  He’ll share my room instead.” He crouched down and scratched the dog’s head, and Murphy opened his eyes, standing and wagging his lazy tail.  He looked to Grantaire and licked his hand.  Grantaire smiled and scratched under the dog’s chin.

“He can stay here.” He said quietly.  Avery smiled.

“Whatever makes you happy, Kid.” He grinned.

 

 

 

 ~Sorry I haven't updated this lately.  I've been writing it, but I kept not liking what I wrote and going way back...


	3. Enjolras II

“I understand you’ve been having some troubling thoughts when it comes to eating.” The woman cooed, speaking to Enjolras as if he were a small child.  He was small, yes, but he was 17.  He wasn’t a baby, and didn’t particularly like being spoken to like one.  He did not reply.

            “It’s okay if you don’t want to talk right now.” She assured him, her smile fake and plastic-y, like a Barbie Doll.  “Sometimes just thinking things over is really helpful.” She explained, clasping her hands in her lap and cocking her head, staring intently at Enjolras with her makeup-crusted eyes, her blue-grey eye shadow overbearing and creepy.  Enjolras looked away and out the window with a sigh, picking at his fingernails absently.

            “Your body is your temple, Enjo-las.” She said.  Though she too was French, she still said his name wrong, and it enraged him, his cheeks turning red.  “You need to take care of it.  But if we can figure out why you’re frightened of gaining weight, we can crack the code together!”

            “I just don’t want to get fat!  That’s it! That’s all there is!  There isn’t anything else!” he said finally, exasperated and angry.  “I don’t want to be fat, so I don’t eat.  When there isn’t anything inside me, there isn’t any extra, and when there isn’t any extra, I stay thin.  That’s it.” He continued, crossing his arms in the awkwardly modern, nest-shaped chair. 

            “But why are you so afraid of becoming overweight?  You are very small, Enjo-las.  You could stand to gain a little weight.  It would make you feel less depressed.”  Enjolras had been on an antidepressant since middle school.

            “No. Gaining weight would make me more depressed.” He replied simply. 

            “Do you understand that what you are doing is unhealthy and irrational?”

            “It isn’t irrational.  It’s perfectly rational.” He replied, his voice losing its edge.  He became quieter. 

            “Starving yourself is not rational.  You are eating less than 100 calories per day, Enjo-las.” He looked away. “And this isn’t all about being thin. I think that maybe it’s about control. Does that make sense?” she asked, speaking as if she were talking to a puppy.  She clasped her hands in her lap and leaned forward, cocking her head again.

            “No. that does not make sense.” Enjolras tossed back.  “I have control over my life. There isn’t anything I’m compensating for.  I have good grades, I am in the honor society, I am currently the top scoring junior debate and mock trial student in France, and I have been accepted to university. I have control.” He said, though he was unsure if he was telling the therapist or himself…

            “What sorts of things can you think of that you do not have control over?” she asked.

            _Being at this shitty therapy appointment, for one._ He said to himself.  _And…everything…_

            “Do you have friends, Enjo-las?” she asked.

            “Yes.” He replied quietly, looking away, rocking idly in the chair.

            “Do you have a girlfriend?”  Enjolras made a face.

            “No. Of course not.” He rolled his eyes.

            “’of course not’?” the therapist asked in reply.

            “No, I mean…I just—”

            “What about a boyfriend?” she asked.  Enjolras felt a lump in his throat.

            “We’re not talking about this.” He said in hardly more than a whisper. “This has nothing to do with my eating.”

            “It has quite a lot to do with your eating.  Do your parents know about your orientation?”  Enjolras did not reply.  “Enjo-las?” she prompted.  He covered his face with his hands and began to cry quietly, taking even breaths, tears soaking through his fingers.  “Enjo-las.” She said again.

            “No.” he said, his voice cracking, his curly hair falling loose from its ponytail.

            “Do you think that might be why you’re not eating?”

            “My father wants the perfect son.  So I’m giving him the perfect son.” He explained into his hands, still covering his face, sniffling. 

            “Nobody can be really perfect, Enjo-las.  It’s alright to not be perfect.”

            “No. I’m fine.  I can do it.”

            “I think it might be a good idea to enroll you in a program for eating disorders. It might be good for you to get away from your home environment for a little while.”

            “You’re going to send me away, then?  You’re going to tell my parents to ship me off so they don’t have to deal with me anymore?  That’s what all this is about, isn’t it?  They don’t want to deal with me!  The minute they find out, they want me gone!  I should have known better!” he shouted, standing abruptly, his face red with tears and rage.

            “Enjo-las, please sit down.  This is for you, not for your parents.”

            “Oh. Oh alright.  Yes.  Yes this is just for me.  This is to make me into the perfect son they want.  That’s what this is for.  It’s for me, so that I can please them.” He said sarcastically.  “Alright.  Yup. I’ll go right now. Call my father right now and tell him to pack my bag and drop it off right here.  Oh, and tell him not to pack anything too _gay_ while you’re at it.  And be sure they don’t send me to an all boys facility, because that would really set me off.  Make sure they know that.” He continued, beside himself.

            “Enjo-las, please calm down.”

            “Enjolras! My name is fucking _Enjolras!_ ” he shouted, backing up to the door. He turned the handle and hurried out into the empty waiting room, slamming the office door behind him and sitting down on the sofa, burying his face in his hands and sobbing.

 

—o0o—

 

Enjolras carried his red backpack through the main doors of the treatment center, followed shortly by his father, who carried his other suitcase.  The woman behind the counter smiled when she saw them enter.

            “You must be Enjolras.” She smiled.  He made no reply until his father gave him a gruff look.

            “Yes.” He replied.

            “So how much is this costing me?” Enjolras’ father, Claude, asked when the woman handed him the forms to sign Enjolras in.

            “Oh I’m not sure about, that, monsieur.” She said.  “You’ll have to take that up with our financial aid office.”

            “I don’t need financial aid.  I want to know the flat cost.” He barked.  Enjolras stood quietly and looked at his feet.  His father was always doing this, making money an issue and letting everyone know how wealthy he was.

            “Oh yes.  Well, it’s normally €120,000 for the full 90 day treatment, but it says here that Enjolras’ needs special attention due to possible bingeing…That will bring it up slightly.” She explained.  Claude sighed heavily, exasperated, then looked to his son, as if to say ‘you see how much you’re costing me?’. 

            “I’ll show you up to your room while your father finishes the paperwork, alright Enjolras?” the woman said with a small smile towards him, trying to diffuse the obvious tension.

            “Bye dad.” Enjolras said quietly, taking his luggage.

            “Goodbye.” He said absently, looking through more paperwork. Enjolras sighed quietly and followed the woman up to his room.

 

 

—o0o—

 

After being in treatment for about a week, Enjolras was beginning to feel more like himself again.  He had gained ten pounds, and was doing well with his treatment. He was sitting in his room reading when there was a knock at the door.

            “Come in.” he called, not bothering to look up from his book. People knocked on his door often, whether it be for a weigh in or a therapy appointment or exercise. He did not expect to see the woman from the front desk, though, and smiled at her when she opened the door.

            “You have a letter, Enjolras.” She smiled, handing him the pink envelope. He smiled.

            “Thank you.”

            “You are quite welcome.” She said, turning to leave.  He turned the envelope over, and smiled when he saw Jehan’s curly writing, spelling out his name.  He slipped his thumb under the flap and opened the envelope, removing a watercolor painted card Jehan had made himself, covered in flowers. He opened it and read the note written in purple pen.

 

_My dear, lovely Enjolras,_

_Though I miss you terribly, I am so very glad you’re getting better!  I do hope you’ll be coming home soon, though.  My mother and father are away in Tibet this month, helping the poor there, and I’m all alone with just me and the house keeper! But please, please get well, Enjolras, I would much rather you complete your treatment and be healthy than be here with me!  Courfeyrac and I went for ice cream yesterday, but it wasn’t nearly as much fun without you. We ordered a soft serve vanilla in your honor and shared it!  That’s always been your favorite.  I know you don’t like sprinkles, but I got some anyhow.  I just thought the ice cream looked lonely without them! I’m so strange, I know!  
            I hope you’re doing well and that you’re feeling more like yourself.  I know I’ve missed the real you over the past few months. Please know that I love you dearly and want you to be well.  Feel better, and I will see you the moment you get home!_

_Lots of Love,_

_Your Jehan Prouvaire~_

 

Enjolras smiled and stood the card up on his night table. 

            “I hope I’ll be home soon too, Jehan.” He said to himself, laying on his bed, sprawled on his back.  “I miss you and Joly and Bossuet and Courfeyrac.” He closed his eyes.  “I’ll be home soon.”


	4. Grantaire: Finale

Grantaire ran away…again.  
            It wasn’t Avery. Really it wasn’t. It was just that Grantaire couldn’t handle the current situation.  What really set him off this time was seeing his father on the daily morning news, being dragged out of their apartment in handcuffs.  Monsieur Avery had tried to comfort him.  He really had, and Grantaire was so appreciative of that, but he couldn’t handle being in that little rowhouse anymore. He wanted to get out. He wanted to go somewhere where nobody knew who he was and wouldn’t say anything about his dad, or about his drinking problem, or about how he had gained almost fifteen pounds since returning from the treatment center.  He just wanted to start over, but he knew it was impossible, so instead he wandered the street aimlessly, morning turning to midday, midday turning to evening, evening turning to night, and night turning into morning again. He hadn’t slept, he hadn’t eaten, and he didn’t care.  He didn’t care about anything.

            On the evening of his second day away, he ran into a guy maybe a little older than he was, sitting on a worn military mail bag, his hair blond and greasy, his chin unshaved.  He was chewing on a toothpick and had an empty coffee can between his worn out boots for change. Grantaire accidentally kicked his foot walking past.

            “Hey.” The guy barked.  Grantaire startled. Though he had run away numerous times, he really wasn’t all that street savvy, and usually tried to stay out of everyone’s way, especially muscular homeless thugs with razor blade tattoos carved into their arms.

            “Sorry.” He said quickly, making to run, halfway down the alley when the guy called him again, his voice far less gruff.

            “It’s fine…Are you okay?” he asked.  Grantaire stopped, out of breath even from his short run, and turned around.

            “Yeah I’m—I’m fine.” He replied, shoving his hands in his pockets, suddenly hyperaware of his love handles when the guy stretched, his arms corded and perfectly sculpted, his old, stained shirt riding up to expose impeccable abdominals.  Grantaire couldn’t help but stare.  The guy stood, raking a hand through his long shaggy hair, pulling it back into a stubby ponytail. He stood and smiled, missing a premolar tooth.

            “Cool. Feuilly.” He said, offering Grantaire his hand.  Grantaire only looked at him for a long moment.  “Don’t worry I’m clean. Just got a shower at the Y.” he said with a chuckle, retracting his hand.

            “No that’s not what I—I mean, I didn’t think you were—”

            “Don’t worry about it.  You lost or something?”

            “No…”

            “You sure?  You look lost.” Feuilly continued.  Grantaire felt like he should have been freaked out, like this guy should have made him more nervous than he was, but this Feuilly wasn’t coming at him or giving him a weird look. He was just standing there like a regular guy, hands in his pockets, his half-dreadlocked hair hanging over his shoulder. He even had a friendly smile—something Grantaire wasn’t expecting.

            “I’m not lost, I just…left home.” He mumbled.

            “You left home?  How come?” Feuilly asked, turning and beginning to walk down the street, scooping up his can and bag as he passed.  Grantaire followed him.

            “I just…you probably think I’m a fatass spoiled brat, huh?” he said with a meek chuckle.  He probably did look like one of those gross teenagers who did nothing but play video games and eat crap food, even though he wasn’t.

            “No,” Feuilly replied with a shrug, looking down to Grantaire as he walked beside him.  He was tall, and Grantaire was not.  “I do think you look like you need a little help, though.  What are you called?”

            “Uh…R.” Grantaire replied.  He wasn’t one to give his name to random homeless guys on the street.

            “Well, R, it might make you feel a little better to tell me what’s going on. I probably can’t do much for you, but sometimes it’s nice to just…tell someone, you know?” Feuilly suggested, thinking of his own personal outlet: Jean Prouvaire. Feuilly met him in a bathroom at the local diner a few months ago, and things started looking up from there. Feuilly was scheduled to get his tooth fixed on Jean Prouvaire’s parents’ tab—they were super rich—and he would hopefully have enough money saved to get an actual apartment within the month. Yeah…Sometimes talking things out really can change your life.

            “I uh…My dad’s in jail.” He began, raking his hand through his dark curls. “I’m in foster care now, I have a drinking problem…But I haven’t had anything to drink since getting with this foster dad guy, and so I started eating and I gained fifteen fucking pounds and now I’m fat and a loser instead of just a loser.”

            “That’s tough.” Feuilly said, but Grantaire was surprised by his genuine concern. “I’m sorry.”

            “What about you, though?  Why are you sitting out on the street?” Grantaire asked, eager to get off the subject of himself.

            “Eh…Ran away from an orphanage when I was ten.  That’s it.  I’m not that interesting.” He chuckled.

            “How’d you get in such good shape?” Grantaire asked.

            “Working out.” Feuilly chuckled again, as if it were obvious—it sort of was. Grantaire blushed a little. “Pull ups, push ups, running…You get bored when you’re sitting on the sidewalk all day begging for change.”

            “That’s it?  Just running and pushups?” He could do that…Maybe he wasn’t a hopeless lazy bum.

            “That’s it…Of course it has been…what…eight years of it. You hungry?”

            “Very.” Grantaire admitted.

            “Come with me, I know a guy who’ll give us food free.” He smiled, leading Grantaire down the block and to a small diner, the name of the place written in blocky, old style font across the top: _Musain_.

            “Come in the back, he’ll hook us up.” Feuilly said, beckoning with his arm. Grantaire followed. Feuilly banged on the metal door, and a moment later, a gruff looking guy in a hairnet peeked out.

            “Eh Feuilly!” he said with a smile.  “Here fer yer sandwich?”

            “Yeah. Mind hooking up my friend R too? Just today.  He needs one of them grilled cheese ones you make.” Feuilly smiled.

            “Give me a minute.  I’ll be right out.” The man said, retreating back into the kitchen.

            “Best grilled cheese you’ve ever had in your life, guaranteed.” Feuilly said, sitting down beside the door.  Grantaire sat beside him.

            “Grilled cheese for Feuilly, and one for Feuilly’s friend.” The man said a moment later, handing Grantaire a paper plate with a massive grilled cheese sandwich on it.  Feuilly got the same.

            “Thanks Max.” Feuilly called.

            “Any time, kid.” He said, saluting and retreating into the kitchen again.

            “This is good.” Grantaire said, taking a bite.

            “Best ever.” Feuilly said with his mouth full.  “And kid,” he added once his sandwich was gone, “Don’t ever take your home for granted, even if it isn’t really your home. If you have a bed and a roof and someone who’s waiting for you to come home, you’ve got it good. Kay?”  Grantaire felt like he might cry.

            “Yeah…Yeah you’re right.” He said, standing.  “I think I’m ready to go home…” he smiled.

            “Good. Things’ll get better. Okay?  Shit gets better.”

            “I don’t know about that, but—”

            “Listen. You’re in foster care. Your dad’s in jail. You’re overweight. You drink.  Sounds pretty shitty, right?”

            “You’re not making me feel better—”

            “You hit rock bottom.” He added.  “this is it.  This is the lowest there is for you.  But you know, once you hit that, there isn’t any place to go except up.  It probably doesn’t mean much coming from some homeless teenager on the street, but someone has to tell that to you.  Shit gets better.” He smiled.

            “Thanks.” Grantaire said with a smile.  “Thanks a lot.”

 

—o0o—

 

When Grantaire walked into Monsieur Avery’s house, there was a police constable standing in the living room.  Mr. Avery looked like he hadn’t slept in a week, and he ran to Grantaire the moment he saw him, holding him in a tight hug.

            “I’m so happy you’re home.” He said into Grantaire’s hair. “I’m so happy you decided to come back.” The police officer smiled as well.

            “Can I do anything else for you, Monsieur?”  the officer asked.

            “No. No thank you.” the man smiled.

            “I’m sorry.” Grantaire whispered.  “I shouldn’t have left.”

            “That’s alright.  I’m sorry I made you feel like you had to leave!”

            “It wasn’t you.  It was me. I’m sorry.  It won’t happen again, I promise.  I promise.”

            “I’m glad, Grantaire.” He grinned.  “Now go get you a shower!  You’ve been out almost two days!”

            “Yes sir.” Grantaire said, heading up the stairs.


	5. Enjolras Finale Part 1

Enjolras’ mother drove him home from the treatment center ninety days later.  He was back up to a normal weight—122 lbs.—and looked much better as well. His hair had stopped falling out, he was no longer constantly exhausted, and the color had returned to his face. He was healthy again, and for that he was glad…Though somewhat reluctantly…

            “Claude!” Enjolras’ mother, Emilie, called into the house for her husband. “Enjolras is home, dear!” she shouted. There was an audible sigh from his father’s office down the hall, and the sound of chair feet on the hardwood floor.

            “Hello Enjolras.” The man said, running a hand through his hair.

            Enjolras looked like his mother.  They had the same, thin, girlish face, thin nose, and narrow mouth. They were both petite, she 5’3, Enjolras 5’5, and were both thin built thinly, with skinny wrists and ankles. But through all of the similarities, everyone said Enjolras looked like his father because of his wild golden curls and intense blue eyes.

            “Hello, Dad.” Enjolras replied, looking down at the duffle bag on the ground at his side.

            “What have we learned, Enjolras?” the man asked gruffly, standing in front of his son, towering over him.  Enjolras set his jaw but did not reply.  “This will not be happening again, do you understand?  You’re too intelligent for this foolishness. _Eating disorder_ …” he grumbled under his breath.  “A royal waste of time and money, Enjolras. You’re lucky we could afford to pay for this.” Enjolras nodded, not meeting his father’s eyes.  He learned long ago that it was best to just nod and do as he was told when it came to his father.  The military man would always win an argument, even if he was undoubtedly wrong.

            “Now up to your bedroom.  You left it a mess.” He barked.  Enjolras started up the stairs with his bags. 

 

By ‘left your room a mess’, Claude really meant that Enjolras had neglected to hang up the small stack of clean clothes sitting on top of his dresser.  He sighed and put them away quickly and quietly, then sat on the bed, pulling out his cell phone from his bedside table drawer.  He texted Jehan.

 

Me: 2:13> Jehan?

Jehan: 2:13> Oh Enjolras I’m so happy you’re home! <3 <3 <3

Me: 2:14> just wanted to say thanks for the letter. Cheered me up :)

Jehan: 2:14> Good I’m glad!!! Come over okay? At 4, perhaps? Have to clean up a little before my mom will let people over!!!  
Me: 2:15> See you then can’t wait

 

He smiled, sitting the phone back on his nightstand

 

—o0o—

 

            “Mommy Enjolras is home!” Jehan called, scurrying down the winding staircase and into the entrance hall of their large townhouse.  Jehan’s parents, Elliot and Ariel, were both from wealthy families, and spent most of their time volunteering in  impoverished places around the world.  But they always made sure their one and only child, Jehan, was happy and comfortable first.

            “Oh I’m so glad, little Poem!” she cooed, taking him into her arms.

Jehan and his mother were almost interchangeable from behind.  Mrs. Prouvaire was of average stature, 5’3, but Jehan was very tiny, and stood at only 5’4, though his father was over six feet tall. Jehan had also inherited his mother’s looks almost to a tee; the freckles sprinkled liberally across his body, his thin, ladylike features, his thick, long red hair, and his green thumb were all passed down the maternal line.  Everything save his bright, wide eyes.  Those belonged to his father.

“I’ve just spoken with him. I invited him over for 4:00 could we please have a little party for him?  Like a surprise?” he asked.           

“Oh goodness Jehan that’s terribly short notice—”

“I’ll tell everyone to bring something to eat.  We could just get a take away pizza.”

“That’s a good idea. Have everyone bring a snack, and I’ll make something.  You can’t eat take away pizza, Jehan.” She reminded him with a smile.  Jehan blushed.  He was horribly lactose intolerant, but he was willing to sit out a meal if it meant his friends were taken care of and his mother didn’t have to make something.

“Thank you, Mommy.” Jehan said, leaning over and giving his mother a kiss on her cheek. “I’m going to set up the movie room, okay?  We’ll just stay in there, I promise.  Thank you thank you thank you!” he sang, hurrying off to decorate—something he was very good at.

Jehan’s house had a relatively large back room that was originally a bedroom on the ground floor. Because they were a small family—only three—they made the extra bedroom into a theatre of sorts. They had a projector that cast a big, bright picture onto the back wall, and multiple fluffy sofas with deep seats so big your feet couldn’t touch the ground.  It was a very snuggly room, and was popular with Jehan’s friends—however few they were.  Jehan invited all of them to welcome Enjolras home.

To: Bossuet, Joly, Musichetta, Courfeyrac, Feuilly <3:

 

2:31>Me—Everybody Enjolras is home and I’m throwing him a little baby party with movies and things, so if you would all please come over around 6:00 this evening with a snack if you can, that would be simply peachy.  Thank you, my Lovelies!

2:32> Musichetta—I’m in.  I’m bringing like fifty pounds of jelly beans

2:32> Joly—Could I bring strawberries or something? You know how I feel about junk food…

2:33> me—Of course Joly you may bring whatever your lovely little heart desires!  Thank you Musichetta, Jellybeans are my favorite! <3

2:34> Bossuet—I’ll be there! I will also bring marshmallows. Because that is all I have in my house and I am poor and my parents are not home.  PS Joly I need a ride.

2:35> Joly—I’ll pick you up at 5:50 Bossuet <3

2:35> Musichetta—@Joly was that <3 meant for me? Lol jk

2:36> Feuilly<3—Sorry I’m late to the text party yup I’ll be there.  Unless you want a can of peas I can’t bring food, though.  Sorry :(

2:36> Me—That is quite alright, my love, your presence is presents enough!

2:37> Joly—Sorry this is lame my mom wants to know if your parents are home

2:38> Me—Yes my mommy is home! My papa will be home later :)

2:40> Courfeyrac—Hi sorry I was helping my dad in the basement without my phone yeah I’ll come!  Idk what I’ll bring for food though…you’ll have to be surprised.

2:41> Me—I’m so glad you can all come! I will see you at 6:00! Enj is coming at 6:30 so if you’re running late make sure it’s before 6:30 or wait so nobody spoils the surprise! <3

 

Jehan smiled, placing his phone on the coffee table and getting to work decorating.

 

—o0o—

 

Enjolras knocked on Jehan’s door, and his mother opened it with a smile.

            “Oh Enjolras it’s so nice to see you!  You look very well!  So much happier!” she gave him a hug, which he willingly returned with a smile.

            “Thank you.  Is Jehan here?” he asked, expecting to see him leaning over the banister from upstairs or scurrying out from the kitchen.

            “Oh he’s back watching a movie, I think.  Go on in, Sweetie!” she said.  Enjolras walked to the back of the house, pondering why Jehan was spending such a nice sunny day watching a movie instead of tending his plants or making something outside, but he didn’t have to ponder long.

            “Surprise!” Erupted from every corner of the room as he entered, and he jumped before laughing.  Jehan ran to give him a hug.

            “I missed you so much, my dear!” Jehan cooed, burying his face into the crook of Enjolras’ neck—he was just a tad shorter than Enjolras, but they fit nicely together, like puzzle pieces.  Enjolras smiled.

            “Thank you guys!  Hey everybody!”

            “Hi Enjolras!” Joly said with a wave from the sofa, his prosthetic leg crossed over the knee of his opposite leg.  “We missed you!”

            “I missed you guys too.  I Feuilly! It’s nice to see you again.”

            “You too.” Feuilly replied simply with a little smile.  The more people present, the quieter and more withdrawn Feuilly became.  He sat over on the loveseat, waiting for Jehan to return to his side.

            “You look much better.  I mean, not that you looked bad before or anything.” Bossuet laughed, rubbing at the odd, patchy hair on his head.  It was so fair and light, he looked just about bald anyhow, but nobody ever mentioned it. It was a bit of a sore subject. He quickly replaced his hat.

            “You looked like a stick man before.  You look good now.” Musichetta said, wrapping Enjolras in her pudgy arms and squeezing him tight.  “You smell good.” She noted, pulling away.  Enjolras laughed.

            “Thanks.”

            “Everyone brought snacks and things!  I made cupcakes with sparkles!” Jehan chirped, flitting back to Feuilly’s side and sitting beside him, snuggling up next to him.  Feuilly kissed his hair.

            “I will be taking one of them.  Or multiples of them.” Enjolras said, taking one of the pink paper plates and collecting two cupcakes, as well as a handful of jellybeans.  Though it was not apparent by his physique or his previous illness, Enjolras had a massive sweet tooth.

            “I put the red sparkly sugar on them because that’s your favorite.” Jehan added with a smile.

            “You’re right.  Thanks.” Enjolras replied, sitting in the massive papasan chair in the corner—his usual spot; in fact, it had been renamed the Enjolras chair because he always sat in it.

            Once everyone was snuggled in, Jehan started the movie: Stand By Me.

            “This is my favorite, Jehan!” Courfeyrac said from the sofa in the corner, sitting by himself against the arm.  Joly and Musichetta were sitting together on the other couch, though neither of them seemed particularly snuggly, and Bossuet sat in the oversized armchair, watching them descreetly.

            “It’s Enjolras’ too!” Jehan said.  Enjolras smiled, wiping the cupcake frosting from his nose with a nod.

            “Are there more strawberries?” Joly asked after a few minutes.

            “Yup. Lots!  There’s still chocolate frosting too if you want to dip them!” Jehan replied.  Joly smiled and stood, taking a plate of strawberries-sans-frosting and sitting down…beside Bossuet. Musichetta raised an eyebrow at him.

            “Hm? Oh sorry!” he said, standing, but Musichetta stopped him with a raised hand and a grin.

            “It’s okay, Joly.  I know. I’ve known for a while.” She chuckled. Jehan looked to Feuilly, who looked to Courfeyrac, who looked to Enjolras, who looked to Joly who looked at his lap, all of them appearing confused.

            “W-what?” Joly stammered, his cheeks turning an incredible shade of red—brighter than the sprinkles on the cupcakes.

            “You know what, Joly.  And it’s okay. You’re still my friend.” She smiled. Joly seemed frozen, and everyone else only watched, still completely out of the loop, until Bossuet suddenly, shakily, took Joly’s chin in his hand, turned his head to face him, and gave him an awkward, completely unplanned and unpracticed kiss, which made Joly flail. Courfeyrac burst into laughter, Jehan covered his mouth and blushed, and Feuilly chuckled lightly. Enjolras, knowing Joly too well, only sat with his eyes wide.

            “Joly are you alright?” Enjolras asked.  Joly nodded, dumbfounded, sitting quietly for a moment.

            “Bossuet have you been ill, received a vaccine, or been out of the country recently?” Joly asked after a long minute.

            “I had a cold a few weeks ago…” Bossuet admitted, realizing the gravity of what he had done.  Joly suffered extreme mysophobia—the fear of germs—and what Bossuet had done was nothing short of handing Joly a mental breakdown on a silver platter.  “I’m sorry, Joly, I didn’t—” Joly took Bossuet’s cheeks in his hands and kissed him back, quite roughly, but Bossuet laughed, as did everyone else.

            “Oh my goodness Musichetta how did you know?” Jehan asked as Joly sat a few inches away from Bossuet.  Bossuet quickly closed the gap and looped an arm around Joly’s shoulders.

            “You guys are idiots!  Haven’t you seen the way Joly gawks at that doofus?” she asked.  “He goes all googly eyed every time Bossuet talks! And he never kissed me like that. He never kissed me at all!” she laughed.

            “I’m sorry, Musichetta…Was it that obvious?” Joly asked.

            “Joly, don’t worry about it.  You’re still my little cutie, and I still love you, but you’re not for me, kiddo. You were made for Bossuet. Don’t worry.” She smiled.

            “Alright alright, Joly’s got a boyfriend!  Shut up I’ve never seen this movie before!” Courfeyrac announced, shoveling in a handful of popcorn.  Enjolras laughed.

            “I missed you guys.” Enjolras said with a smile.


	6. Enjolras: Finale Part 2

The day after the party, Enjolras had a panic attack—the first one he ever had in his life.  He had eaten too much.  He had eaten far too much, and he wanted it gone.

            Both of his parents had gone to work, and he was left alone, sitting on his bed, crying, screaming, coughing, until suddenly his mind hatched a terrible, horrible, _wonderful_ idea.

            Not thirty seconds later, Enjolras was kneeling in front of the toilet in his bathroom, trying to figure out the best way to make himself throw up.

            Though he had been suspected of purging before, he had never actually done it, and he really wasn’t sure what to do.  It didn’t take him long to figure it out, though, and he reached his hand down his throat, making himself gag.  It took a few tries, but soon he vomited up everything in his system, flushing it all away…And it felt amazing.

            For the next few weeks, Enjolras continued to purge.  It was easy, and hid his fear of eating extremely well. He could eat with his family at dinner, make it look like everything was completely as it should be, but then rid himself of the food and the calories and the _extra_ the moment he was alone.  Nobody knew.  Nobody could tell…not at first, anyway.

            After a four weeks of constant purging, Enjolras began to fall legitimately ill again.  The lack of sustenance had made him extremely lethargic and weak, and he had lost all of the weight he had gained back—even more so.  He was down to just 93 pounds when it happened.

            It was the morning, and Enjolras was carrying his plate of breakfast to the table. Recently, he had been hiding food to avoid eating it: pushing it into a plastic bag in his lap at the table, spitting it into a napkin, playing with his food to make it look like he had eaten more—and though he had more or less stopped eating, he had not stopped his purges. The hair on his head began to fall out, but thin, white hair began to grow on his arms and chest. He was in a constant state of exhaustion, and did little besides sleep.

            He was nearly to the table to join his mother and father when his eyes fluttered, rolling back.  He collapsed, suddenly crumpling to the floor and into a boney, pale pile.  His father was the first at his side, and quickly took him into his arms.

            “Enjolras.” He said, giving him a little shake, pushing the spilled plate of eggs and toast away.  He laid his son down flat on the floor and gave him another, more urgent shake.  “Enjolras!” he called.  “Enjolras!” he gave his cheek a light slap, trying anything he could think of.  His mother looked on, horrified, tears coming to her eyes.

            “Emilie, call for an ambulance.” Claude demanded, holding his hand over Enjolras’ mouth, feeling for a breath.  None came.

            He panicked, and immediately began rescue breathing and chest compressions, each press giving Enjolras’ frail body a sickening jolt. Claude felt tears creep into his eyes, but he pushed them away.  He had no time or attention for tears.  The only thing that mattered now was his son.

            “Please.” He begged, though he knew not who he was speaking to. Enjolras?  God?  He continued compressions.  “Please come back, Enjolras.”  Sirens screamed up the street.

 

—o0o—

 

Enjolras was in a hypoglycemic coma for four hours, then an induced coma for another three days so he could be properly fed and his frail body could begin to heal.  His mother and father never left his side, holding his hand, brushing the curls out of his face, all the while trying to ignore the drips and tubes and needles all connected to their son.  His face was hardly visible around the oxygen mask, a pulse detector stuck to his temple.  The steady ‘beep…beep…beep’ of his heart monitor and constant whir of the machinery was the only sound for the majority of those three days.

            On the second day, Jehan and his mother stopped by, but they didn’t stay long. Jehan couldn’t handle seeing Enjolras with all of those tubes and equipment hooked up to his tiny body, and began to cry almost immediately, sitting on the side of the hospital bed and taking Enjolras’ hand in his own.  He lifted it to his face and held it to his cheek, startled at his freezing fingertips.

            “Oh Enjolras…I’m so sorry…” he whispered.  “We love you so much.  Please wake up.  You have to wake up.” He managed only a few quiet words before beginning to sob rather loudly. His mother spoke briefly with Enjolras’ parents before leading Jehan out of the room.  They were the only visitors allowed to see Enjolras.

            On the morning of the forth day, Enjolras was slowly allowed out of the induced coma, his eyes finally fluttering open at around ten.

            “What happened?” he asked, looking around, startled and still groggy.

            “You stopped eating again, Enjolras.” His mother explained, holding him in a hug, though he wanted nothing more than to lay down again. “You were in a coma for four days.” He looked over his mother’s shoulder to his father, who sat quietly in the corner, his eyes tired, his face full of concern.

            “Do you feel alright?” he asked finally, when Emilie finally released her son. Enjolras nodded, laying down again with help from his father.

            “I’m sorry, Dad…I promised you I wouldn’t do this again, bu—”

            “Shh.” Claude said, sitting beside him on the bed.  “It’s alright.  We’re going to fix this.  We’re going to fix it right this time.”  Enjolras nodded.

 

He did get better.  After living in a therapy group home for five months, he was finally discharged, back up to 128 pounds, his eyes bright, his skin rosy, his hair golden and glossy.  And he stayed better. He stayed better for almost four years…

**Author's Note:**

> Want to know what happens next? Check out the next series in my profile! Thank you for reading and I do hope you liked it!


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